The Keeper of the Dark

I keep a small, rusted brass key in a velvet-lined box, though I have long since forgotten which door it once opened. It is heavy for its size, cold to the touch, and carries the faint, metallic scent of a house that no longer exists. There is a strange comfort in holding something that has outlived its purpose, a relic of a time when we were certain of where we belonged and how to get inside. We spend our lives building structures—walls, habits, relationships—believing they will stand against the tide of the coming night. Yet, the night arrives regardless, turning our landmarks into silhouettes and our certainties into shadows. We are left to navigate by the intermittent pulses of light we create for one another, small beacons meant to ward off the vast, encroaching silence. Does the light exist to guide the traveler home, or simply to remind us that we are all, in our own way, drifting?

Mike Dooley has captured this quiet endurance in his image titled Castle Hill Lighthouse. It feels like a sentinel standing watch over the memories we have left behind in the dark. Does this beacon offer you a sense of safety, or does it make the surrounding night feel even deeper?